14 THE INTERVAL CRAIG WAITED. HE FELT too discouraged all week to visit the island. Sunday came and went without a mention of the rocket, then Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday—the week. He saw the weather change from the bright clearness of Indian summer to the gray-blue of late autumn, and he knew that the island in the marsh was as cold as the November air. He imagined leaves blowing, grass bending over beneath the trees. Only the sturdy pipsissewa and the hemlocks, he thought, were green, and he realized that by now the wind had filled the launching pit with leaves and jammed the wings of thistle seeds into the command center. It would shove broken stems under the door to Batta and shake the hemlock needles over the rocks above the subterranean room. Friday morning he looked out his window and knew the winter had sealed the island in sleep. The raccoon and the chipmunks would be dozing, the crickets would come into the shelter of Batta. Saturday passed without a word from the committee.
